


Intent

by kaistrex (weishen)



Series: Prompts [18]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, College Student Stiles, De-Aged Derek, Derek Feels, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Derek, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-13 16:12:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weishen/pseuds/kaistrex
Summary: Stiles can hear the patter of footsteps,tinyfootsteps, and when he looks down, a kid is peering up at him from around the kitchen island with black hair and big, innocent green eyes.The glass slips from Stiles’ fingers into the sink, sloshing water across the counter and all over the floor. “Derek?!” Stiles slaps a hand to his forehead. “Who did you piss off this time?” he groans.-Stiles is supposed to be spending his weekend home from college in his boyfriend’s bed, not babysitting said boyfriend who’s been turned into a four-year-old by Deaton’s emissary replacement.





	Intent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Notsalony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notsalony/gifts).



> The idea for this fic was mostly inspired by your ‘handcuff’ tag but then when I started exploring the reason for the de-aging, I couldn’t make that aspect of the idea work anymore so I had to take it out ^^; I really hope you like it regardless!

Derek regrets ever agreeing to help Scott pack Deaton’s belongings at the clinic. He knows it’s an important task with Deaton retiring as the Beacon Hills emissary after all these years, but he hadn't realised when he'd said yes that it was the weekend Stiles was coming home from college to visit. By the time he did, no one else was available — or they’d had time to prepare their excuses.

He’d rather be staying at home in bed with Stiles — and he knows that’s exactly where he is because the little shit just sent him a picture with the sheets pulled dangerously low down his hips — but instead he has to stifle a sigh as he shoves his phone back in his pocket and follows Scott inside the clinic.

Deaton stands behind the counter beside a woman with darker skin and hair almost as short, and with just one look, he knows this is Deaton’s replacement.

“Evelyn Richards,” she introduces herself, chirpily, with a hand out to Scott. With what he knows of Deaton and Morrell, it feels like she must be a defect of the robot factory where their impassive emissary was manufactured.

When she’s introduced to Derek, her eyes light up, and he knows that can’t mean anything good.

“Mr. Hale! I’ve actually got a gift for you,” she says, rummaging around in her pockets. “Ah-hah!” Before he can say he doesn’t want it, no matter what it is, she lifts up a tiny packet, tears off the top and tips the contents — blue and purple powder — into her hand. Then she blows the strange mixture straight into his face and half open mouth.

Derek staggers back with a snarl that just has him choking like he’s been fed a mouthful of glitter, trying to swipe it from his eyes.

“What the hell was that!” Scott is yelling, planting himself between Derek and Evelyn, voice thick with his fangs.

“Hmm. That was probably a little too much,” she says. “No matter. It will all work out in the end.”

When Derek manages to open his eyes, he can see Deaton has rolled his skyward. The fact that he shows no concern beyond that doesn’t do much to put him at ease.

“But what have you done to him?”

“Mr. Hale will be fine. I’m just righting a wrong,” Evelyn assures them, clapping the lingering powder from her hands.

Derek doesn’t care what she has to say. He wants to be far away from wherever she is, and his wolf is sharing the sentiment. He backs to the door and flees before anyone can stop him, heading straight for his car.

His skin is buzzing, half with revulsion, half with adrenaline, and all he wants to do is get to Stiles and pretend he never got out of bed this morning.

 

*

 

Stiles is just washing off his plate to put in the dishwasher when the loft door opens. Before he even has a chance to turn round, Derek is looming at his back and pressing his nose behind his ear, breathing him in.

“Did you miss me that much, big guy?” Stiles laughs, turning in his arms. He’d expected a few growls for finding him up and dressed but Derek seems content enough to hold him here. “Why are you back already? If I’d have known you were going to be so quick I would have waited to eat.” Stiles frowns once he gets a look at him, reaching up to cup his cheek. He’s flushed and hot to the touch and buzzing with energy. If he weren’t a werewolf, Stiles would say he has a fever.

“What's wrong?” Stiles asks.

“I—” Derek blinks at him, eyes glassy, and Stiles reaches up to grab his shoulders when he sways dangerously on his feet.

“Okay, come sit down,” Stiles coaxes, pulling Derek’s arm around his shoulders to support his weight as he leads him to the couch, trying to tamp down on rising panic. He gets Derek’s head nestled on a pillow and he looks so young gazing up at him.

“Just stay here, okay? I’ll get you some water.”

He darts back to the kitchen and while he’s filling a glass he hears the _clank_ of Derek’s belt hitting the floor. It’s no surprise he wants to get out of his clothes considering how hot he’d felt. Stiles needs to get on the phone to Deaton straight away.

He whirls round at the sound of footsteps behind him. “Baby, I told you to—”

Except, there’s no one there. But he can still hear the patter of footsteps, _tiny_ footsteps, and when he looks down, a kid is peering up at him from around the kitchen island with black hair and big, innocent green eyes.

The glass slips from Stiles’ fingers into the sink, sloshing water across the counter and all over the floor.

“ _Derek?!_ ”

All the kid has on is the Henley Derek — _adult_ Derek — had already been wearing, coming down to his knees, with a sock trailing from his left foot. With his narrow hips and skinny legs, the pants must have slipped straight off.

Stiles slaps a hand to his forehead. “Who did you piss off this time?” he groans.

Derek’s eyes grow impossibly bigger and start to fill with tears, his bottom lip trembling. Stiles’ heart shatters in his chest and he rushes forward to scoop him up.

“No. No, Derek, it's okay,” he says, setting him on his hip. “I’m not mad at you, okay? You haven’t done anything wrong,” he soothes, rubbing his back and rocking him gently.

Derek sniffles and presses his face to his neck.

What the hell is Stiles supposed to do about this?!

A distraction. That’s what he needs.

“How about I make you a drink?” he asks and Derek nods against his throat.

“Come on then, sit over here. How does a banana smoothie sound?” It’s hard to keep an edge of hysteria out of his voice but it seems Derek is extra sensitive to emotions in this state so he fights to keep it level, regardless of his heart hammering in his chest.

He sets him at the island then digs some ice cubes out of the freezer and throws them in the blender with a banana — which he almost forgets to peel the skin off — and milk and honey. As soon as it’s in a glass, he stabs a straw in it, sets it in front of Derek with a plastered on smile then tears up the stairs for his phone. He scrambles to unlock it and frantically dials Scott.

“What did you two do today?” he hisses as soon as he answers.

“Why?” Scott asks warily, and from the tone Stiles can tell this phone call isn’t entirely unexpected. “What’s happened?”

“He’s four years old!”

“What do you mean?”

Stiles leans out of the bedroom to peer through the railings of the spiral staircase at Derek down in the kitchen kicking his legs three feet off the floor. “I _mean_ he’s _shrunk_ . What. _Happened?_ ”

“Well…” Scott hesitates, radiating discomfort through the phone. “We met Deaton’s replacement.”

“You went without me?!”

“We didn’t know she was going to be here!” Scott defends.

“But you didn’t think to call?”

Scott splutters at the accusation. “It literally just happened! Derek left straight away so I thought he’d tell you!” he tries to explain as a woman in the background asks, “Is that Mr. Stilinski? Let me talk to him.“

It sounds like Scott doesn’t have a choice in the matter and a second later the woman’s voice is loud and clear.

“Mr. Stilinski? I’m Evelyn Richards.”

“Are you going to explain to me why my boyfriend is suddenly four years old?”

“Four?” she repeats, and Stiles’ stomach lurches at the concern in her voice. He can just make out some rummaging on the other end of the line. “Hmm. Looks like I did overshoot the mark. Is he vomiting? Turning yellow?”

“No?” he answers, casting a worried look at Derek searching with his straw for the dregs of his drink. Perhaps giving him a liquid wasn’t a good idea.

“Good. Good. I only meant to take him back to his teenage years but it sounds like he’ll still progress as planned.”

“Progress as planned for what?”

He can hear her smile. “You’ll see. If you haven’t already.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his eyes. If she’s really of Deaton’s ilk he’ll never get an answer out of her so he doesn’t push. Instead he asks a more important question. “Is it permanent?” he all but whispers.

“Heavens, no! It will just take a bit of time to right the wrong.”

“What wrong?”

“Goodbye, Stiles. I hope we get to meet in person soon.”

Stiles huffs. “Don’t count on it,” he grumbles to the dial tone.

After shooting a text to Scott to come over ASAP with kids clothes, he heads back downstairs to Derek who turns to look at him over his shoulder, beaming. His cheeks are plump with baby fat and his knees are knobbly where he’s still swinging his legs under the counter. He’s _adorable_.

Stiles tentatively, wearily, returns the smile, and then Derek goes cross-eyed, his face scrunching up as he’s wracked by a sneeze, his eyes flashing gold. He giggles and Stiles smiles wider despite the fresh ache in his chest at seeing the colour of his eyes, the colour they would have been when he was this young. Before Paige.

Stiles still thinks his usual blue is beautiful, but he knows without the pack who already know and love him, he’d be ostracised by most other werewolf communities, and it’s just a signal for hunters to consider him a danger. It’s not like his case can be called before a jury to judge fairly. Hunters love to shoot first and ask questions never.

With his drink finished, Stiles manages to get Derek in a pair of his boxers like a pair of shorts, the waistband pulled tight and tied with an elastic band, in time for Scott to show up with Lydia, Kira and Erica in tow.

Kira is rendered immediately useless as she slaps her hands to her cheeks and can manage nothing more than squeals and coos over how cute Derek is where he’s shyly clinging to Stiles’ pant leg and peering up at them.

Scott scratches his head while Lydia thrusts a bundle of cloth at Stiles which turn out to be kids clothes, and it’s only seconds before Erica is chasing Derek around the loft with her claws out as he screams with laughter.

Stiles pauses the fun when the makeshift shorts start to ride dangerously low and helps him into the clothes Lydia brought with her: a t-shirt saying ‘I love my daddy’ — Stiles throws her a dark look at that — and a pair of red shorts.

Erica takes to snapping pictures once he’s finished and even Stiles joins in, letting Derek take a selfie of the two of them together when he makes fascinated grabby hands for Stiles’ phone.

“So we’re supposed to just wait?” Kira asks when Stiles sits back to let Derek start chasing Erica as payback.

“Apparently. I’d really hoped with Deaton getting a replacement we were going to be done with this sort of crap, but she’s just as cryptic and tight-lipped and causes even more trouble,” Stiles says, waving a hand at Derek. “But I think… he might be a bit taller?” In fact, Stiles is certain of it, looking at where the top of Derek’s head now stands above the kitchen counter. His t-shirt sleeves are starting to look a bit tight around his little biceps too and his stomach is peeking out the bottom. It won’t be long before he's outgrown them entirely.

The rest of the pack turn up not long later after Erica sends a group text of a picture of kid Derek riding on her shoulders and they all stand around ogling him while he tries to hide behind Stiles again. Isaac steps forward and fishes in the bag he’s holding, pulling out a plush wolf with exaggeratedly big eyes — which actually looks a lot like Derek like this — and crouching down to hold it out to him.

Derek reaches for it tentatively, and Isaac smiles when he hugs it to his chest. “Thank you,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles can’t resist ruffling his hair.

After some more playtime, Derek whispers in Stiles’ ear that he’s hungry so he makes him a PB&J and it isn’t long after that that Derek is clambering into Stiles’ lap and pressing his face against his neck.

“Are you getting tired, Bear?” he asks, not really sure where the name came from but Derek nods against his throat regardless. Stiles pats him on the rump. “Let’s change you into some different clothes so you don’t outgrow these while you nap, okay?”

The pack take it as a good time to leave them to it and they each pick Derek up to cuddle him half to death before they leave, though he doesn’t seem to mind by his giggling.

As soon as Scott has shut the door behind them all after telling Stiles to call if there are any developments, he urges Derek up the stairs to his room. His movements are sluggish as Stiles sits him on the mattress and gets him to lift his arms to pull his top over his head. He puts on one of older-Derek’s sleepshirts, his smaller self almost swimming in it, along with the elastic-band-boxers.  He pulls back the covers and Derek snuggles inside. Stiles’ heart melts a little bit as Derek wriggles over to Stiles’ side of the bed, nostrils flaring in contentment.

Derek blinks up at him, eyelids heavy, as Stiles circles round the bed and perches on the edge to stroke his forehead. His eyes slip shut, a sound like a purr rumbling in his chest that's nowhere near as deep as the one Stiles is used to. He smiles down at him and keeps stroking with his thumb until Derek’s breathing has slowed, then creeps from the room and down the stairs.

 

*

 

When Derek comes to it's with the peculiar feeling that he's been stretched, wrung out. He sits up in bed, gazing about his room and wondering how he got there. There’s a dog plushie in the bed next to him, along with an elastic band, and he wonders for a moment if the objects are part of some weird sex thing Stiles had roped him into.

He throws back the covers and gets to his feet, pulling on some sweatpants before heading down the stairs to the couch where he can hear Stiles’ heartbeat. As soon as he reaches the bottom, Stiles’ head whips round, wide-eyed, but he sags in relief at the sight of him.

“You’re back!” he breathes, dropping his face to the back of the couch.

“Where did I go?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I…” If he thinks hard enough, he can remember a flurry of powder and getting into his car and rising heat, but beyond that… nothing.

When Stiles fills him in on what happened, it’s not too difficult to believe considering he’s been ‘de-aged’ once in his life already, even before Stiles shows him photographic evidence. (He’s going to kill Erica when he gets his hands on her.)

“She hasn’t stolen your mojo like Kate, has she?” Stiles asks, squeezing at Derek’s arms and patting his chest like he’d be able to tell whether Derek is still a werewolf just from touch alone. “You aren’t going to start not healing?”

Derek flicks out his claws and flashes his eyes. After Kate there had been a sense of wrongness, but here he doesn't feel any different. “I don’t think so.”

A look comes over Stiles’ face like he’s been punched in the gut. “ _Derek_ ,” he breathes.

“What?” Derek asks, keeping his claws out as worry clamps tight around his stomach.

Stiles grabs his cheeks and tilts his head towards the window so he can see two pinpricks of light reflected back at him. Not blue, but _gold_.

Derek blinks and takes a shaky breath. “But—” He touches his fingertips below his eyes, staring. “How?”

“They were gold earlier when you were a kid,” Stiles whispers. “I just thought it was because you'd reverted to before…” _Paige_ , Derek hears him not say.

 _I’m just righting a wrong_ , Evelyn had said, and a lump forms in his throat.

Stiles clasps the back of Derek’s neck in both his hands, curling his fingers into the hairs at his nape.

“I always said it was stupid,” Stiles says, fiercely, tears in his eyes. “It was your intent that should have been measured, not the innocence of the life. It wasn't your fault, Derek.” He leans forward to press a kiss to the bridge of Derek’s nose, between his still glowing eyes. “You deserve this,” he whispers against his skin.

Derek clutches at Stiles’ shoulders and drops his face to his neck, unable to stifle a whimper. Stiles squeezes him back, pulling him closer.

Not too long ago, he would have argued with him, would never have believed for a second that he didn’t deserve every shred of blame. Through Stiles’ help, he’s come to accept he was just used by people who manipulated his vulnerabilities, and most important of all, he managed to accept forgiveness from himself. Receiving this gesture from someone else really feels like the final step of his recovery.

Eventually, he straightens, passing a hand over his eyes and giving Stiles a watery smile.

“How about I make you some dinner?” Stiles asks. “You’ve already slept the day away.”

Derek draws him in for a simple, sweet kiss, the only way he knows how to show his gratitude for everything Stiles is for him. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

Stiles smiles and steals another kiss before heading to the kitchen. While he clatters around in the cupboards, Derek gives Deaton a call.

“Is Evelyn there?” Derek asks. His voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat.

Deaton doesn’t sound surprised to hear Derek is back to normal. “No, I’m afraid she’s left for the night.”

“Could you tell her… Tell her I said thank you?”

“Of course. Good night, Derek.”

Stiles joins him on the couch while he waits for pasta to cook, simmering away on the stove. He brings up Netflix on the TV.

“Your pick,” he says, handing the controller over.

Derek knows from many an argument past that that’s not a privilege Stiles grants lightly.

Sitting on the couch with a bowl of mediterranean pasta and Stiles pressed up against his side, nothing has really changed from their usual day to day whenever Stiles is home. Even with his eyes, he still doesn’t feel any different, but he can’t help flashing them and watching the reflection in the TV. He knows Stiles can see it too but he doesn’t swat at him or tell him to cut it out even though it must be getting in the way of the movie. Instead, he just nuzzles closer, head resting on Derek’s shoulder as he sighs in contentment.

If this gift is something Evelyn did before even starting her role as emissary, he’s curious to see what else she might have up her sleeve. Either way, he’s done his part. Now, he just hopes whatever surprises she drops or trouble she causes in the future can be all Scott’s problem.


End file.
